Memoirs of Eighty Years

by Thomas Gordon Hake

I had yet to make my visit to Rome; it was from Stassfurt again. The weather in October was getting cold over the plains of Saxony, and my son-in-law, Dr. Dupré, reminded me that it would be still colder on the Alps. He went with me on part of my journey; we took train from Leipsic to Munich, arriving at dark, and renewed our tickets for Botzen. There we had supper in company with a smart English-Greek, a native of Corfu, and his friend, together with a French lady of fine proportions and laughing face, besides a young Bavarian officer of the rapid-mannered kind.

There were other rooms in the hotel besides the one in which we supped, and to which the three gentlemen described followed the lady wherever she went, her laughter taking the form of fits. And such is the politeness of what we call foreigners, they accompanied her even to her chamber door. She returned to the supper-room after all this. Dr. Dupré was there alone, and she told him, half in complaint, the other half in fun, what had been going on.

With this company of three I found myself in the same carriage the next day, the Greek and his friend leaving us the following day, at noon, at a house in that wonderful Alpine gorge between Botzen and Verona.

Dr. Dupré was on his return home, viâ Strasburg, where he went to purchase a horse from the king’s stables. I proceeded with the young officer and the lady.

The journey to Bologna which we made together was a comedy in a hundred acts, as long as a great Chinese drama. The gentleman perched himself on the arm of the seat, and took out a well-thumbed book of conversations in the usual four languages, to practise himself in the Italian, and from this he read aloud to the lady, who sat opposite to him, in the tone of one earnestly addressing another, now on business as if she were hotel-keeper, waiter, chambermaid, jeweller, dressmaker, or barber. She heartily enjoyed his frankness, and laughed over every question and answer.

That night we slept at Bologna, the lady proceeding to Naples, the officer taking down her address and promising to pay her a visit there before long.

When I left the German side of the Brenner it was in the cold season; the leaves were colouring, drooping, and falling. When I reached the plain of Lombardy the summer had not stirred, all was green and warm.

I went from Bologna to Florence (the beloved) with my Bavarian. There were two English ladies and their brother, a surgeon-major of artillery, in the same carriage with us, and we entered into a rapid acquaintance, I and the gentleman through professional, and the young officer and the ladies through moral, sympathy. He amused them as effectually as he had done the madame. We proceeded to the same hotel at Florence, the Porta Rossa. My German took the ladies about, with his open Bädeker, and showed them all the sights. They were single ladies, and, therefore, very much charmed. One day, walking with them on a country stroll, it evidently occurred to him that it was his duty to tell them who he was, and his way of doing this afforded them much amusement. He suddenly stopped before a cluster of violets, and bending his head to address them, said, “Sweet flowers, I dare say you would be pleased to know my name, who and what I am. My name is ⸺, and I am a captain in the Bavarian army!”

I lingered at Florence for a month, looking at my favourite models of art, the chief of which now was the Perseus, by Cellini, and what I loved to linger over, never tiring, the Six Vestals, of Greek sculpture in the Loggia dei Lanzi.

But to dwell too long on such exquisite works of man’s genius almost infatuates; whilst gazing on a single object one seems to frame from memory an old and new testament of the inspired artists, and to call some of them evangelists, and some apostles.